The air in Cartagena’s old town hung thick with salt and secrets. María stood before her ancient cast iron wok, stirring a pot of her infamous chili sauce that locals swore could make even the dead speak truth. Steam rose in serpentine wisps, carrying whispers of revolution and betrayal.
“Too spicy for a gringo like you,” she said with a knowing smile as Agent Thompson settled onto the weathered barstool. His pristine white linen suit stood in stark contrast to the peeling paint and decades of cooking smoke that stained her walls.
“I’ve developed quite a taste for heat, señora,” he replied, loosening his tie. His português accent was perfect, but María hadn’t survived thirty years as the cartel’s favorite chef by missing such details.
The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its shadows dancing across Thompson’s face like the lies he wore so comfortably. María ladled the blood-red sauce over rice, watching as beads of sweat already began forming on his brow.
“You remind me of my late husband,” she mused, sliding the plate before him. “He too thought he could handle more than nature intended.”
Thompson’s fork hesitated halfway to his mouth. “What happened to him?”
“Ah, such a tragedy. His tongue burned with such secrets that one day, he simply… evaporated. Left nothing but a pile of classified documents and his favorite guayabera shirt.”
The agent’s hand trembled slightly. María noticed how his eyes darted to the old photograph on the wall – the one showing her younger self beside Castro at the infamous ‘62 summit. The one that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Strange things happen in this café,” María continued, wiping her hands on her apron. “They say the spirits of fallen spies season my dishes. Perhaps that’s why the CIA has sent so many agents to sample my menu.”
Thompson’s face remained impressively neutral, but the slight widening of his pupils told her everything. The sauce was working its magic – her special blend of capsaicin and truth serum, perfected over decades of serving both sides of the cold war.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed between increasingly labored breaths.
María leaned forward, her silver hair catching the late afternoon light. “Then why does your left pocket carry a microphone registered to Langley? Why does your right shoe heel contain a cyanide pill? And most importantly…” she paused, watching the realization dawn in his eyes, “why did you really come to my café today?”
The fan stopped. The usual street noise outside fell silent. Thompson’s hand moved toward his concealed weapon, but his muscles refused to cooperate. The sauce was fully in his system now.
“Because,” he whispered, his facade crumbling like the cornbread María served with every meal, “we know about the quantum codes hidden in your recipes.”
María smiled, reaching for her own plate of the spicy rice. “Ah, now we can begin the real conversation. But first, would you like more sauce?”
The ceiling fan resumed its lazy spin, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled five times. Or perhaps it was six. In María’s café, time had always been as fluid as her legendary sauce, and truth as spicy as the secrets it concealed.