玛玛西塔是街对面三楼正面公寓里那个男人的大个儿妈妈。拉切尔说她的名字应该是玛玛索塔，我想这不重要。

那个男人攒钱把她接到了这里。他攒呀攒呀，因为她一个人带着小男娃在那个国家生活。他做两份工。他早出晚归。每一天。

后来有一天，玛玛西塔和小男娃坐一辆黄色出租车来了。出租车门像侍者的手臂一样打开。迈出来一只粉色小鞋，一只兔子耳朵一样柔嫩的脚。接着是肥肥的脚踝、扇动的臀、紫红玫瑰和绿色香水。那个男人得在外面拉，出租车司机得在里面推，推呀拉呀，推呀拉。出来了！

一瞬间她像花一样打开了。庞大，大得惊人，却看上去很美，从帽顶上的浅橙色羽毛到脚趾上的小玫瑰花苞。我简直没法把眼睛从她的小鞋上移开。

上去，上去，她抱着蓝色毯子里的小男娃走上了楼梯。男人拎着她的衣箱、紫色帽盒，十几盒缎面高跟鞋。然后，我们就看不到她了。

有人说是因为她太胖，有人说是因为那三层楼梯，可我认为她不出来是因为害怕说英语，可能是这样的，因为她只知道八个单词。房东来的时候，她知道说：他不在；如果是别的人去，她就会说，“别说英语”，还有“见鬼”。我不知道她从哪里学的这个，但我听她说过一次，感到很惊讶。

我父亲说他刚到这个国家的时候吃了三个月的火腿煎蛋。早餐、午餐和晚餐都是。火腿煎蛋。他就知道这个单词。他再也不吃火腿煎蛋了。

不管是什么原因，是因为她胖呢，或是不想爬楼，还是怕说英语呢，反正她都不会下来。她整天坐在窗边收听西班牙语广播节目，唱各种关于她的国家的思乡曲，声音听起来像只海鸥。

家。家。家是照片里的一所房子，一所粉红色的房子，粉红得像一朵怵目光线下的蜀葵。男人把寓所的墙壁都漆成了粉红色，可那是不一样的，你知道。她依然在为她粉红色的房子叹息。后来，我想，她哭了。是我我会的。

有时男人厌烦了。他嘶喊起来，整条街都能听到。

唉。她说。她很伤心。

哦。他说。再也不喊了。

唉。什么时候，什么时候，什么时候？她问。

唉。他娘的！我们是在家里。这就是家。我人在这里，我住在这里。说英语。说英语。上帝！

唉！玛玛西塔，不属于这里的人，时不时地发出一声哭喊，歇斯底里的，高声的，似乎他扯断了她最后一丝维系生命的线，一条通向那个国家惟一的出路。

后来，永远地伤了她的心的是，那个小男娃，开始说话了，开始唱他在电视上听到的百事可乐广告歌。

别讲英语。她对那个操着那种听起来像马口铁的语言在唱歌的孩子说。别讲英语，别讲英语，然后泪如泉涌。别，别，别，她好像不能相信自己的耳朵。

No Speak English

Mamacita is the big mama of the man across the street, third-floor front. Rachel says her name ought to be Mamasota, but I think that's mean.

The man saved his money to bring her here. He saved and saved because she was alone with the baby boy in that country. He worked two jobs. He came home late and he left early. Every day.

Then one day Mamacita and the baby boy arrived in a yellow taxi. The taxi door opened like a waiter's arm. Out stepped a tiny pink shoe, a foot soft as a rabbit's ear, then the thick ankle, a flutter of hips, fuchsia roses and green perfume. The man had to pull her, the taxicab driver had to push. Push, pull. Push, pull. Poof！

All at once she bloomed. Huge, enormous, beautiful to look at, from the salmon-pink feather on the tip of her hat down to the little rosebuds of her toes. I couldn't take my eyes off her tiny shoes.

Up, up, up the stairs she went with the baby boy in a blue blanket, the man carrying her suitcases, her lavender hatboxes, a dozen boxes of satin high heels. Then we didn't see her.

Somebody said because she's too fat, somebody because of the three flights of stairs, but I believe she doesn't come out because she is afraid to speak English, and maybe this is so since she only knows eight words. She knows to say：He not here for when the landlord comes, No speak English if anybody else comes, and Holy smokes. I don't know where she learned this, but I heard her say it one time and it surprised me.

My father says when he came to this country he ate hamandeggs for three months. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Hamandeggs. That was the only word he knew. He doesn't eat hamandeggs anymore.

Whatever her reasons, whether she is fat, or can't climb the stairs, or is afraid of English, she won't come down. She sits all day by the window and plays the Spanish radio show and sings all the homesick songs about her country in a voice that sounds like a seagull.

Home. Home. Home is a house in a photograph, a pink house, pink as hollyhocks with lots of startled light. The man paints the walls of the apartment pink, but it's not the same, you know. She still sighs for her pink house, and then I think she cries. I would.

Sometimes the man gets disgusted. He starts screaming and you can hear it all the way down the street.

Ay, she says, she is sad.

Oh, he says. Not again.

¿Cuándo, cuándo, cuándo?she asks.

¡Ay, caray！We are home. This is home. Here I am and here I stay. Speak English. Speak English. Christ！

¡Ay！Mamacita, who does not belong, every once in a while lets out a cry, hysterical, high, as if he had torn the only skinny thread that kept her alive, the only road out to that country.

And then to break her heart forever, the baby boy, who has begun to talk, starts to sing the Pepsi commercial he heard on T. V.

No speak English, she says to the child who is singing in the language that sounds like tin. No speak English, no speak English, and bubbles into tears. No, no, no, as if she can't believe her ears.